


Nothing Ventured

by Thranduil Oropherion Redux (erynlasgalen1949)



Category: PotC
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-07
Updated: 2010-11-07
Packaged: 2017-10-13 02:45:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erynlasgalen1949/pseuds/Thranduil%20Oropherion%20Redux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years later, Jack Sparrow returns with a startling proposition for Elizabeth and Will. Can they trust him? Will they? Drama/Angst. Jack Sparrow; Elizabeth Turner; Will Turner; Bootstrap Bill Turner. Warning: Spoilers</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Plunge

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own none of this. The elements in this story are created and owned by Ted Elliott and Terry Rossio, Jerry Bruckheimer, Gore Verbinski, and the Disney Corporation. I am making no money from the forthcoming endeavor. Beta reader for this story is Ignoble Bard, with special thanks to the good people at Lizard Council.

**Nothing Ventured**

 

 **Chapter One: The Plunge**

' _There pass the careless people  
That call their souls their own:   
Here by the road I loiter,  
How idle and alone._

Here by the labouring highway  
With empty hands I stroll:   
Sea-deep, till doomsday morning,  
Lie lost my heart and soul.'

A.E. Houseman

 

The knock at the door caught Elizabeth Turner at her bookkeeping. Business had been good, and she supposed she could count herself a rich woman. That is, if one considered only the monetary side of life.

For some odd reason, pirates never troubled her ships. And ships they were, for the reliability of untroubled trade had allowed her to augment the _Empress_ with two other vessels, the _Odysseus_ and the _Penelope_ , within the past three years. Cargo flowed from the Orient and from all other parts of the world where goods might decently be had, making her a woman of means. A woman of power, by anyone's reckoning.

And yet, she had no maid to open her door for her should a visitor come to knock. Maids asked too many awkward questions about Mister Turner, away at sea for an indefinite length of time. Maids, no matter how humble they appeared at the start, looked a woman in the eye with an unspoken challenge that said, "You're no better than the rest of us, are you, girl? That fine boy of yours, he's a bastard, isn't he?" And maids were curious, looking into secret places and deep closets to find oddly noisy chests that might require more explanation than she could comfortably give.

And so, Elizabeth Turner, once a great lady, the daughter of the Governor of Port Royal, still nominally the Pirate King of the Brethren Court, set aside her quill, rose from her desk, brushed down her skirts, and went to answer her own door.

The door swung open, wafting in the moist air of the tropical afternoon, the salt tang from the harbor, and the scent of unwashed men. "Hello, poppet."

"Oh no," she groaned. "What do you want with me?"

The taller one, the sandy-haired fellow, winked at her. Elizabeth noticed that he had acquired a glass eye to replace the wooden one. It was hardly an improvement. His shorter friend, the one who had greeted her, sniggered, making it all too clear what they would have wanted of her. Elizabeth gave them a glare. Pintel and Ragetti -- how could she forget? Many were the pirates who had tried, and failed, to ravish Elizabeth Swann Turner in the past decade, but this pair deserved special recognition.

"It isn't them, luv," said a familiar voice, as the two of them stepped aside to let the speaker through. "I have a proposition for you."

"Jack Sparrow," she said, barely noticing the winks and nudges of the other two at his use of the word 'proposition.' "I suppose this visit was inevitable. I'm frankly surprised you didn't turn up sooner."

He smiled, the sunlight glinting off one of his gold front teeth. "It's been a while. You'll grant me that."

"Ten years. Ten very long years." She smiled sweetly, but her voice had the bitter note of a woman who has finally had her wedding night, only to be robbed of her marriage.

"Not quite. Not quite ten, and that's why I'm here, Elizabeth."

"That would be Mrs. Turner to you, Captain Sparrow," she said, pausing to fan herself in the heat. "Why did you bring those two with you?"

"Capt'n Sparrow's gone a little . . ." The shorter one -- Pintel -- paused and made a circling motion around his ear with his forefinger.

"It's for his own protection," Ragetti chimed in. "Captain Barbossa thought you might do him an injury if--"

"Never mind about that," Sparrow interrupted. "Elizab-- Mrs. Turner, are you going to leave me standing in the street?"

"Give me one good reason not to," she spat back.

"Mama, Mama . . ." Elizabeth felt a small whirlwind at her back as her son raced to the door and skidded to a stop. "Are these pirates?" he said in wonderment.

"Hush, Billy," she said quickly. Talk of piracy still made her nervous, and for good reason. "These gentlemen are honest seamen."

She turned back to the men in the street, expecting to see smirks. Instead, Jack had the oddest expression on his face. Through all their adventures, and those had been considerable, Elizabeth could not recall a time when Jack Sparrow had turned a hair, not even when faced with the Kraken. Yet now he looked positively flabbergasted.

"That," he said, staring at her boy. "If ever you had a reason to let me in, luv, that would be it."

"Very well," she said, with a quick shake of her chin. "I take it this matter is private?"

"We'll watch the youngster for you, Missus, while you and Capt'n Sparrow conduct your business," said Ragetti. Beside him, Pintel nodded and flashed his craven smile.

Elizabeth raised a delicate eyebrow in the pair's direction. _'Not bloody likely,'_ was simply not in the vocabulary of a gentlewoman. "Billy, go play out back in the garden," she said gently. "Jack, come with me. And you two -- you can wait out in the street."

As Billy scampered off, Elizabeth led Sparrow into her parlor. "Don't start, Jack."

"I won't," he said. "There's no question -- he's the spit image of Will. I didn't know."

"How could you? I haven't seen you since the deck of the Black Pearl. So, tell me, what have you been doing all this time?"

"Oh, been here, seen this, done that -- you know how it is."

"Ten years, Jack. Ten long years." And long years they were if a frank eying-up by the likes of Ragetti managed to put a warmth into her cheeks. Not to mention the presence of Jack Sparrow across a room. But soon Will would be home, if only for that one promised day . . .

"What finally brings you here?"

"I've had ample time to do some thinking," he replied, taking the fire out of her anger. "He was right, Teague -- my father. The trick isn't living forever. It's living with yourself.

"This is my fault, Elizabeth," he said. "I might as well still be wearing that black spot for all my soul isn't at peace. But I've had ten years to ponder it, and here's my plan . . ."

* * *

When Jack finished his speech, the sharp lines of shadow and sunlight coming in through the louvered shutters had moved a good twelve inches across the floor.

Elizabeth stopped biting her lip and took a deep breath. "Tell me again, Jack, exactly why should I trust you enough to do as you are asking?"

"No reason to trust me, luv. None at all. But that curse won't break; not for your love or your faithfulness, or God's own mercy. I'm your only chance at a real life for you and that boy."

Again, she shook her head. It seemed a slim hope at best. And the awful thought came -- what if Jack was lying to her?

"I'm sure Will told you," Jack said quietly, "how he risked everything on one roll of the dice. Can you do anything less for him now that it's your turn?"

"I promised," she said. Will had always kept his promises, no matter what the cost. And she could not forget that it was Sparrow himself, by giving Will to Davy Jones, who had set this whole tragic sequence of events in motion, robbing her of her husband and Billy of his father.

"I know what you're thinking, Elizabeth. But I've done a lot of soul-searching in the past ten years. I'm a changed man and I want to make this right. What do you have to lose?"

What did she have to lose? Nothing. Everything. Often, in the lonely nights, she had told herself she ought to be grateful for what she had. Will was alive, somewhere, rather than dead. She'd had one perfect day with him to enjoy his body rather than burying it. And she had her son. She could look forward to four or five such days before age and death finally took her. Sparrow's plan risked even this small comfort. But a handful of days paled when balanced against the life she had dreamed of with Will. "Not enough," she whispered.

"Not enough!" She rose from her chair, her voice taking on the strong tenor of that day she had called the Brethren to battle. "Jack, come with me."

"Into the bedroom?" he asked, sounding a bit like the old Jack, as she led him to the rear of the house.

"Where else?" she said, stooping down beneath her heavy wooden bedstead to shove aside the chamber pot and retrieve the chest from its spot on the floor directly below her pillow. Each night she lay, listening to the soothing cadence of her husband's heart. Cold comfort, but now there was a chance for more. "Here you are, Jack, and I hope to heaven you're right."

She put the chest into his outstretched arms. "You'll be needing this too," she continued, pulling a chain from her neck and giving him a key, still warm from resting between her breasts.

"He gave you the key as well?" Jack said, looping the chain over his own head. "That boy really trusted you."

She nodded. "Yes. And perhaps he should not have done."

"No less than you should have trusted me," he said, showing gold in his smile. "We're like two peas in a pod, luv."

They went to the door, interrupting a game out in the street between Pintel and Ragetti over who could spit the farthest.

"I'll be on my way, then. There's no time to lose." Jack stopped and gave her a hopeful look. "Will you at least give me a kiss good-bye?"

Elizabeth cocked her head and raised a warning eyebrow. "Are you sure about that, Jack? You know what happens to men I kiss."

"I know it well, and at this moment it's the least of my worries."

"All right," she said and turned her chin up to him.

He claimed her lips, hungrily as a man who knows he will not soon dine again. Here at last, while her husband's heart beat its steady rhythm between the two of them, she sensed the real man beneath all the bravado and the act. "Go to the appointed place," he whispered, "and wait for the sign. You'll know if I've been successful."

He pulled away and stowed the chest under his arm. Ragetti and Pintel made as if to follow. At the last moment, he paused. "It would never have worked out between the two of us, Elizabeth. But never, ever, think that I didn't love you."

He turned on his heel and strode off down the street, the setting sun glinting through his braids. He was not a tall man, Elizabeth realized as she saw him walk away, but he was one of the biggest she had ever known.

"Good-bye, Jack Sparrow," she murmured, as Billy came up beside her and laid his head against her arm. "May God go with you . . ."


	2. Death By Water

**Chapter Two: Death By Water**

 

 _'There flowers no balm to sain him  
From east of earth to west   
That's lost for everlasting  
The heart out of his breast.'  
A.E. Houseman_

 

The Flying Dutchman had been following the slave ship for the past two weeks, pulling from the water the sad detritus of the evil trade: the frightened, confused souls of African men, women, and in one awful case, a child, all dead of pestilence bred in the cramped filthy hold and their bodies tossed overboard for the sharks. Will Turner could offer them little comfort, even though all souls could understand him when he spoke, no matter what their native tongue. It was a small blessing wrapped within the curse of his eternal duty, he supposed. He could only shake his head as each new ghostly passenger came on board, offer his hand, and say, "You're free."

The latest batch in this trail of foul breadcrumbs had been the slaver's captain and three of his officers. They bore the marks of sword thrusts, and one man had taken a pistol ball between the eyes. The captain, a short man with the face of a weasel and a belly that overhung the waistband of his breeches, babbled of pirates and a black ship with black sails.

Framed by the gauntlet of his undead crew, Will stood tall and looked the man in the eye. "Do you fear death?"

The slaver captain nodded.

"Rough luck for you, then," he replied. "I'll not have your sort among my crew." For a moment, he contemplated putting the four in with the other dead souls so that the victims might take their rough justice. However, he cast the impulse aside. It was not his job to judge; he was only the ferryman.

He spat over the side. "Take them to the brig."

As the men were led away, he turned and stared out at the horizon. The sea provided an endlessly changing vista. Sometimes, like today, the water was as calm and flat as glass, reflecting the blue arch of the heavens, with barely a thin line to show where the sea became the sky. On the squally days, both water and sky turned grey, the deep swells reminding Will of the rolling hills at home in England, where he had lived with his mother until her death. His favorite times were the sunsets, when the descending sun tinged the pearly clouds with salmon pink and made the waves sparkle like amethyst.

One color the sea lacked, though, was the true, deep green of the land. Will pined for the sight of growing things, the feel of tender grass and the hot sand between his toes, the scent of the jacaranda flowers and the night-blooming jasmine on a humid summer evening. Some men loved the sea and were drawn to it. Will Turner accepted it merely as his unavoidable lot, and he grieved the loss of the land.

He gripped the fine hardwood railing of his ship with hands callused from ten years at the wheel. He even found himself missing the burning heat of his forge, the feel of his hammer in his grip, the bone and sinew-shocking blow of metal on metal. He wondered, not for the first time, if his hunger for solid ground had become a metaphor for Elizabeth and all the things he had lost in life. One by one the days of his ten-year sentence had passed like grains of sand through an hourglass, following an internal rhythm known only to him. Soon, now -- soon. And then one day, one perfect day to pay for all . . .

"Captain." The voice of his first mate came over his shoulder. "We have another boat coming in."

Will turned, smiling despite himself as he did whenever he saw his father. With each passing day, Bill Turner seemed to grow taller, losing the habitual stoop that the years on the bottom of the ocean and his subsequent servitude with Jones had given him. The lines on his face had smoothed out too. His father was healing slowly, and that knowledge gave Will what little joy he could take in his life.

"Another one? How many did they kill?"

Bootstrap shook his head. "This is a live one."

Sure enough. Shading his eyes with his hand, Will scanned the water and spied the lone dinghy approaching. The Dutchman hove to, waiting, and soon a familiar figure hoisted itself over the railing.

"Jack Sparrow," Will said. "I felt certain I'd be ferrying you for real, before ten years were out. And here you are -- cheated the devil yet again. What took you so long?"

"You're a hard man to find, Will Turner. Even setting the bait for you and the Dutchman, I worried I'd come too late."

"Where's your ship?"

"Hector and I have reached an understanding," Sparrow replied. "He gets the Pearl. I'm to have another ship."

"Is that so?" Will began. That did not sound like Jack Sparrow at all. The Jack Will knew would never willingly give up his _Pearl._ What could possibly have brought about that understanding? But before he could voice his question, he froze at the sight of the object beneath Jack's arm, feeling suddenly cold down into the soles of his boots. He gave a quick nod to his father. "Steady as she goes, Mr. Turner. Jack, come to my quarters." He had no wish to receive crushing news in front of his men.

In the captain's cabin, Will motioned Jack to a seat and took one himself, trying to keep a remnant of his dignity. If Sparrow was bringing him his heart back, it could mean only one thing. _'Oh, why, Elizabeth?'_ he wondered. _'Why now, when we were so close . . .?'_

"She wants her freedom, doesn't she," he said aloud, his voice sounding like a death croak even to his own ears

"Last time I saw her she was looking mighty . . . lonely," Sparrow replied, with a bland expression that Will found maddening.

"You know, all I ever wanted was to be with her. To fall asleep beside her every night and to wake up every morning to her face. Just a simple life." Will shook his head. "I can't really blame her. She deserves a husband who can give her more than one day every ten years. So, who's the lucky man? You, Jack?"

He watched as Sparrow's face twisted into a wry smile. "Oh, don't be an ass, William. You're the lucky man. You always were."

"Then why are you here? And why have you brought . . . that with you?" As he spoke he did his best to fight down the grinding unease he felt in the presence of that chest. Knowing that his own heart beat inside it served only to remind him of the unnatural thing he had become, of everything he had lost.

"I want you to set a course for the other side," Jack said. "You and I have some business to be done over there."

Will shook his head. "I don't think so, Jack. It's less than a week until my ten years are up, and I've just enough time to make Shipwreck Island. No business is so important as to make me miss my one day on dry land. Not for you. Not for anyone."

Sparrow leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow. "Not even for her? There's dry land in the Land of the Dead, and you're going to need it, mate."

Will stared at him for a time without answering. Then, with lightning swiftness, he wound up and slammed his fist down onto the table, sending pens and navigational tools flying. "No!"

He felt gratified when Sparrow jumped. "You expect me to listen to you?" he continued, his voice deceptively quiet after his outburst. "Ten years. Ten long years I've waited to see my wife and you want me to give it up all for one of your mad schemes? Let me assure you, Jack, even without a heart, it is quite possible to feel loneliness, grief and despair. I've lived for this day, and you will not take it from me."

The smile faded from Sparrow's face. "You've said it yourself, Will. Elizabeth needs a husband. This is your only hope, mate."

"I have hope," Will said evenly. "Something Calypso said -- that if a woman were faithful, the curse might break."

"Calypso is a lying trollop," Jack shot back. "They don't say that the sea is a cruel mistress for nothing. True, you might be released from the Dutchman and she'll find some other poor fool to take your place, but tell me, Will, what are you going to do without . . .?" He tapped his chest in a knowing gesture.

"Jones!" Will spat. "May God damn him!"

"He's got you in a pretty pickle," Jack agreed. "Jones damned himself. But you need to trust me, Will. I've had almost ten years to puzzle this out, and this is what I propose . . ."

* * *

When Sparrow finished his speech, Will set his hands upon the table and nodded. He rose and headed topside.

"Mister Turner."

"Aye, Captain?"

"Set a westerly course. The exact bearing makes no difference."

"Not . . .?" Bootstrap rarely questioned his orders, but his face showed sincere confusion now. "Not to Shipwreck Island?"

Will shook his head and gave his father a reassuring smile. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained. We cross over at sunset."

* * *

 

In all the years Will Turner had captained The Flying Dutchman, he had never set foot in the Land of the Dead. He had seen the ferried souls disembark, some with looks of joy on their faces as they spoke of a far green country, some trembling in fear at what they beheld. But he himself had never seen through the curtain of fog to learn what lay beyond. Not until today.

He stood upon the sand, still feeling the illusory pitch and roll of the ocean. After ten years at sea, it was the land that felt unstable beneath his feet.

"It's a bleak place." Jack stood at his right hand, his voice muffled by the mist and the crash of the surf.

"Bleak?" Will shook his head. A breeze from inland carried the scent of tropical flowers, and the mists parted to reveal the streets of Port Royal. It looked just like home. As he stood watching, he heard the sound of hoofbeats on the cobbles, and a carriage rolled past carrying Weatherby Swann. At his side sat a handsome woman who resembled a twenty years older version of Elizabeth. _'So that's what she will grow to be,'_ he thought with a smile. A man could do far worse.

In the opposite seat, facing backwards, sat James Norrington, and the couple gazed upon him with the sort of fond smiles usually reserved for a son. Even though Norrington stared out to sea, he paid the three men on the beach no mind. _'Of course,'_ Will told himself. _'In the Land of the Dead, we, the living, must seem as ghosts to them.'_

Will sighed. So this was heaven.

"What do you see, Jack?" he asked.

"Sand. Nothing but empty, barren sand. Just like before."

Quickly, Will turned to Bootstrap, who had pulled the dinghy up out of the surf, and now stood with his hand nervously fingering the knife at his belt. "You, Father -- what do you see?"

"I see the white cliffs and the green hills. It's the harbor at Landsend, and your mother is smiling at me out of the mist, Will. Her hair is blowing in the breeze just like I remember from the last time she saw me off." Bootstrap gave him a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, son; it's not my time yet, but I thank you for the vision just the same."

 _'Heaven is whatever you want it to be,'_ Will told himself, _'and so is hell.'_ He supposed it made sense. Aloud he said, "You're still in the locker, Jack. Don't believe your eyes."

"Perhaps it will change for me when today's business is done," Sparrow replied, giving a shake of his beads. "But no matter. I'm not going back there. Not ever."

He set the chest down on the shingle and drew the key from his pocket. "Are you ready, Will?"

Will nodded slowly. What man could ever be ready for such a thing? "As much as I ever will be."

He watched as Sparrow turned the key in the lock and opened the lid. He forced himself to breathe steadily when Jack reached inside and brought the red, pulsating object into view.

"All right. Let us make certain we have forgotten nothing. You are here, in the Land of the Dead, body and soul."

Again, Will nodded. The sight of his own beating heart in Jack's hand made him want to double over and vomit into the sand.

"Tell me, Will Turner, are you at peace?"

"At peace?" He barked out a bitter laugh. "Dead at twenty-two? Cursed to an eternity of ferrying the dead? I had my whole life ahead of me -- a life that I wanted. I want it still. No, Jack, I am most certainly not at peace."

"All right then. Everything seems to be in order." Jack drew his dagger and poised the tip of it against the heart.

At the last second, the moment of truth, Will felt a chill race through him. "Jack -- what if you're wrong about this? What if it doesn't work?"

Sparrow paused, and Will felt both the exquisite vulnerability of having his heart in another's hands and the realization that his friend would not strike without his consent. "In that case you will die for real, and after a few short decades, as balanced against the vastness of eternity, your beloved Elizabeth will die and join you. I really don't see what you have to lose here, mate."

What did he have to lose? Nothing. And everything. He looked into his father's eyes, seeing the doubt he felt himself, and it became clear. "Nothing ventured," he said. "Do it, Jack."

The dagger descended.

Will had died before, but, mercifully, he had forgotten the pain of it. He clutched his chest, clawing vainly at the cold-hot agony that transfixed him. His lungs heaved spasmodically, drawing in air that did him no good. He panicked. Was this such a good idea after all? Why had he let Sparrow talk him into it?

Too late for second thoughts. It was done.

As the strength ebbed from his limbs and blackness descended, Will felt a sudden overpowering compassion for Davy Jones, gasping out his doomed love at the last. With his remaining breath, he gave voice to his final thought, his final hope, as the sand rushed up at him and he knew no more, "Elizabeth . . ."

* * *


	3. World Without End

**Chapter Three: World Without End**

 _'His folly has not fellow  
Beneath the blue of day   
That gives to man or woman  
His heart and soul away.'  
A.E. Houseman_

 

Will Turner awoke to semi-darkness and the sound of thunder. A pre-dawn squall over the water, he thought, or perhaps cannon-fire. But who would be reckless enough to take on the Flying Dutchman in battle?

It took a confused moment before he identified the noise as the rumble of his own pulse in his ears -- a sound unheard for over a decade.

He lay wrapped in a blanket, enveloped by the unique scent of Bootstrap. Will moved his arms and legs experimentally and found them constrained by the high wooden sides of a narrow bunk. They had laid him in his father's cabin, but why? Then the memory came flooding back: the pulsing heart in Jack's hand and the descending knife. The Flying Dutchman had a new captain; the master's quarters with the spacious bed now belonged to someone else.

Quickly, Will brought his hand up to his chest and slipped it inside his shirt. The jagged, lumpy scar that he had borne for ten years was gone, and beneath his palm he felt only smooth, unmarred skin and a faint, rhythmic vibration. Lying in the half-darkness, listening to the creaking of the ship around him and the rush of the water beneath the keel, Will Turner smiled and breathed a single word: "Whole . . ."

Grey light seeped in through the tiny porthole, growing ever brighter and showing the faintest tinge of pink. Will rose, pulled on the boots he found neatly lined up on the planking beside the bunk, and made his way topside. On deck, the crew moved silently about in the pale dawn, performing the routine business of trimming the Dutchman's sails and swabbing the decks.

A lone figure stood at the wheel, beaded hair and tricorne hat silhouetted against the brightening sky. "William! I see you're awake."

Will strode over. "Jack, I . . ." He trailed off, finding himself suddenly at a loss for words at the sight of two inches of thin, pink scar visible above the collar of Sparrow's shirt. Bootstrap seemed to have done a marginally neater job of it this time. Practice made perfect, Will supposed.

"That'll be Captain Sparrow to you, whelp," Jack replied, with a faint upward twitch of his lips. "It's almost sunrise, Shipwreck Island is dead ahead, and I'm eager to have you off my ship."

"Not as eager as I am to be off it," Will said with a quick laugh. "I'll cross us over --" He stopped in mid-sentence, as the realization hit that he no longer possessed the ability. For good or ill, he was no longer the master of the vessel that ferried souls from one side to the other. He was merely cargo.

"That's all right, Will," Jack said. "I'll do the honors. You get on forward. This is a view you won't want to be missing."

Will dashed up to the bow and grabbed onto the rigging, bracing himself as the sun cleared the horizon and he felt the familiar gut-twisting flip of the Dutchman slipping between the worlds. Before his eyes, the clouds lit up with a flash of green and for a brief moment, the waves turned to sparkles of emerald.

"That's for me!" he shouted for joy, knowing that ever after, his favorite color would be green.

He swung himself up onto the bowsprit, leaning outward and straining his eyes as he searched the cliffs ahead for the first sight of her. 'Oh, please, Elizabeth,' he whispered. 'Please be there . . .!'

His heart gave a leap, and he felt a smile suffuse his face as he spied at the top of the cliffs, her slender form backlit against the darkening sky, her dress rendered pink by the setting sun. And beside her, a smaller figure . . .

"Oh my God . . .!"

"Bit of a surprise, eh mate? I'm sorry about all those eunuch remarks. I really didn't think you had it in you. Proved me wrong, you did."

Will swung down off the bowsprit and whirled to face his friend. His pulse hammered in his ears and he felt light-headed. Living with a heart again would obviously take some getting used to. "Jack, why didn't you . . .?"

Sparrow shrugged. "Supposing I had told you? Would you have been willing to risk it, knowing you have a son?"

"I have a son," Will repeated lamely, knowing he must sound like Mr. Cotton's parrot.

"No doubt about it, he's the spit image of you," Sparrow laughed. "I don't know what it is about you and Bootstrap, but you two throw colts that take after their sire. There was a lot more at stake here than you realized, mate."

Will shook his head, still trying to get his mind around the concept. Would he have risked never knowing his child as a living being if Jack's plan had failed? He could not answer that question. "I'm glad you didn't tell me, Jack."

As the Dutchman eased into shallower water and prepared to drop anchor, Will turned and watched his wife and child make their way down the narrow path to the beach. "Ten years gone. My boy's entire life so far. A good quarter of the time I might have spent as man and wife with Elizabeth. It's a stiff price, but a fair one, I suppose, for having my life returned to me."

Sparrow cleared his throat. "Ah, on that score, mate, I have a little something for you and the missus. A belated wedding present if you will." He rummaged through his pouch and drew out a clear bottle, three-quarters full of amber liquid.

"Rum?" Will laughed. "I don't think so, Jack. On this night, of all nights, I don't think I'll want to be drinking."

"Take it, Will," Jack insisted. "I won't be needing it. And it isn't rum."

Sparrow turned and leaned his elbows against the railing, staring out over the water toward the beach. In profile, his face looked somber. "I found it, Will. The fountain flows slowly, but it's still flowing. I spent a long time alone with my thoughts while I waited for that bottle to fill. By the time it was halfway, I realized my father was right; I'd no use for eternal life until I could stand spending it alone with myself. The rest of it is the time it took me to puzzle out how to make things right again. There's a goodly amount there. Enough for eternity for you two and then some, I think. Use it wisely."

Will looked down at the tightly corked bottle before shoving it carefully into the waistband of his trousers along with his sword and pistol. "You could have been a rich man with this. Thank you, Jack."

"I could have been many things," Jack replied. "But I am what I am. And I'm already rich. Now let us bring round the dinghy to get you to the shore and into the arms of your eager bride."

"Belay that," Will laughed. "I'm not waiting for any dinghy. I'll swim for it."

With that, he ran out onto the bowsprit and launched himself into a dive, glorying in the freedom of weightlessness and the sheer joy of being alive. With his eyes on the beach, he hit the water and swam.

* * *

Jack Sparrow stood watching as Will cut the water as cleanly as a young dolphin. His heart -- no, his spirit swelled at the sight. Despite the crash of the surf, he still heard an odd silence in his ears and felt an alien stillness in his chest. This life without a heart would take some getting used to.

"Go on, lad," he whispered. "You're free."

"You're a good man, Jack Sparrow," came Bill Turner's voice from over his shoulder.

"And a pirate. Never forget that." The two of them stood watching as Will reached the shallows and struggled up through the surf into the arms of his wife. "I suppose you'll be wanting to join them, Bootstrap. Your time on the Dutchman is more than up."

Turner shook his head. "Maybe next time. Right now, three's a crowd. And by my reckoning, Jack, there's still some debt owing."

"Ha! Look at that -- he's getting her all wet." Will had picked Elizabeth up and was swinging her around, as the little boy looked on with wide eyes. Jack glanced over at Bootstrap. "Are you sure about that, Bill?"

"I know what you did, Jack. You gave my boy his life back. I won't soon be forgetting that. I'll stay, if you'll have me."

Jack nodded. "Then make yourself useful and hoist anchor. We're leaving." Already, he felt the call of drowned souls summoning the ferryman to his duty. He did not intend to shirk it.

"Aye aye, Captain Sparrow," Bootstrap said, and turned on his heel.

Before following his first mate, Jack spared a last glance back at the beach. Will had set Elizabeth down and knelt in the sand in earnest conversation with the boy, while Elizabeth looked on. As if sensing his eyes on her, she turned to the sea and raised a hand in farewell.

Davy Jones had been a fool to think that by cutting his heart out and locking it away in a box he could put an end to all pain. Jack still felt love, and loss, countered by the satisfaction of putting things to right for once in his selfish existence. "Goodbye, love," he whispered, as the wind filled the sails, the Dutchman creaked into life beneath his feet, and twilight swallowed her receding form.

Jack still felt all those things, but foremost, he felt hope. He was Captain Jack Sparrow, master of the mightiest ship to sail the seven seas. No man could harm him, for he intended to keep his heart close to hand. Eternity lay before him, as it does for all men, but even as he sensed the spirits of his crew around him, all good men and true, he knew that if it came down to it, he could face it alone with only himself for company.

As the Dutchman slipped from the cove and made for the open sea, Jack strode back to stand beside his first mate at the wheel. "Where to, Captain?" Bootstrap inquired.

Jack merely laughed. What a grand adventure! "Steady as she goes, Mr. Turner. Bring me that horizon . . ."

* * *

 

 _Ah, past the plunge of plummet,  
In seas I cannot sound,   
My heart and soul and senses,  
World without end, are drowned.'  
A.E.Houseman_


End file.
